


You Don't Bring Me Flowers

by poisontaster



Category: The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Canon, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-14
Updated: 2008-03-14
Packaged: 2018-02-14 13:24:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2193420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The next time Brian sees them all again is Allison's funeral.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Don't Bring Me Flowers

The next time he sees them all again is Allison's funeral.

There wasn't any prearrangement. They didn't make any plans. They just all showed up at the cemetery as the sun drooped down toward the horizon, throwing everything into shadow and covering them in light colored like blood.

Bender brought the flask, of course. A dented and cheap thing with the requisite skull and bones. Fucking Bender. Leave it to him.

"Should we say something?" Claire looks around at them, as wide-eyed pretty as ever. She takes the flask from Bender's hand and holds it awkwardly between perfectly manicured nails. The positioning also shows off the rock of her engagement ring to its best advantage, but charitably, Brian doesn't think it's on purpose. It's more like an instinct with Claire, something buried deep in the genes of pretty girls everywhere, like brown eyes. A dominant trait. "I think we should say something."

"You really think she's going to give a shit about anything we have to say _now_?" Bender demands, with typical sensitivity and Andy, who hasn't said a word yet, red-eyed and wrecked, shoves him.

"Hey!" Brian pushes into the middle of the sudden scuffle. He'd like to say it's bravery. He'd like to say he's brave, but it's more annoyance than anything, swallowing his morbid fears of getting hurt. As it is, Andy and Bender shy away from Brian like he's covered in shit and they don't want to get any on them. Bender tosses his hair back and juts his jaw out, trying to look tough through the hectic spots of red blushing his cheeks. Andy just turns his back, going to the broken edge of the grave.

"They weren't still…" Claire makes a wishy-washy gesture with the hand not holding the flask. "You know?"

Brian shrugs. They were, Allison and Andy, but it's not his place to say it. Besides, he's been gone at college and he's not supposed to know anything about the lives of four people who barely knew he was alive…save for one stupid-strange afternoon.

He doesn't really know what happened with Claire and Bender, beyond that one defiant hickey, artfully "hidden" behind a gauze scarf and Bender's new diamond fashion statement, but he's pretty sure it never went further than that, if only because of the way Claire's eye still sidle to Bender after all this time, like his mom sizing up the relative merits of having another piece of cake or not. His sex life leaves a lot to be desired, most days, but he knows that look, the stare of hunger unfulfilled. If Claire had fucked Bender, she would have it out of her system by now, instead of trying to edge closer to him without anyone noticing.

Not that Brian is noticing.

Bender…Brian doesn't know what his deal is, though he's spent a certain amount of furtive care trying to figure it out and trying _not_ to look too deeply into the reasons why. He supposes at this point, out of his mother's house and past the last pretenses to heterosexuality, he knows _why_ , but his spank-bank fantasies are different from standing here now in the crackle-frost grass, smelling that pot-and-cigarettes-and-BO mélange that is only and uniquely John Bender.

Despite the cold, Brian feels too hot, sweat trickling down his back beneath his thermal, tee-shirt and North Face jacket. With Bender—for reasons unknown—subtly fleeing Claire by coming around Brian's other side and pretending to study the grave, Brian jerks the flask out of Claire's hand and takes a good long belt.

He's expecting rotgut, something cheap and caustic that will scour the tastebuds from his mouth. The fact that it's actually a half-decent single malt throws him and Brian chokes on it, coughing.

Bender pounds him on the back helpfully. "Such a lightweight, Brainiac. Don't make it so I've got to carry you home. God only knows what I'd do to you."

Brian is grateful for the darkening sky, hiding the searing burn of his face.

"Probably sell his organs," Claire remarks sourly and Bender sneers. Claire abandons her chase and goes to Andy's side, putting her arm around his shoulder and murmuring too soft for Brian to hear.

Ah. Just like high school, then.

"C'mon." Bender makes a weird jump-hop right in front of Brian and throws his arm around Brian's shoulder in a weird mirror of Claire and Andy. "This scene's too fucking morbid, man. You're Irish, right, Johnson?"

"Ac-actually, my family's German," Brian confesses, the past four years of relative sanity and stability peeling away to make him again a reedy, gawky sixteen year-old with no better idea of what to do with his dick than to hide Bender's skunk-weed. "Johnson is…is actually a bastardization of Jansen, because…because when my grandfather came over at Ellis Island…"

_"Brian."_

Brian ducks his head. God, this is fucking absurd and can only end in disaster. This is why he got the hell out of Shermer. Well. Not Bender, _specifically_ …

"I don't care," Bender says with exaggerated patience. "The point is, I think we should be celebrating Allison's freedom from this dreary mortal coil properly. With alcohol. Preferably lots."

"I…I…sure."

"Excellent!" Bender claps his hands then rubs them together briskly, freeing Brian from the press of his body _right next to Brian's._ He looks over to Claire and Andy. Andy's face is turned away from Claire's, shoulders vibrating with sobs or just little tremors. "You coming?"

Claire glares over her shoulder. Surprisingly, for all his regression into his teenaged self, Brian finds her disapproval terrifies him less than it used to. Everything terrifies him less than it used to.

John clucks his tongue and enfolds Brian in that same one-armed hug again. "Well, more for us, then."

Almost everything.

Brian lets Bender half-drag him through the higgledy-piggledy rows of gravestones, only scuffing his feet a little in reluctance. Feigned or not, he can't tell. "Hey, Bender—John…" Hell, why not? This may be his first and only chance to use Bender's name live and in person instead of moaned out between spurts of come. "I don't know if this is such a hot idea, man…"

Brian is busy enough whinging that he doesn't expect the suddenness with which Bender turns on him, shoving Brian back into a hard and leafless birch maple. Brian has less than a second in which to flinch in anticipation of a punch or noogie or kick to the balls…

Before Bender's body covers his, the frantic heat of his mouth tilting up into Brian's like vertigo—a rush that Brian can't make sense of and can't shake off. As ever when confronted with the unfathomable, Brian goes still and quiet and small in his skin, but even that's no help or defense when Bender's hands intrude between them, tearing at the clasp of Brian's belt, brutalizing his zipper in a single hard jerk.

"Christ, you sound hot when you say my name," Bender—John—mutters, managing to pack both irritation and arousal in the words. He shoves his hand into Brian's khakis. Bender's fingertips—left bare by his ripped gloves—are chilled, scrabbling over the trapped thickness of Brian's shaft in a frustrating lack of friction.

 _Fuck. He'll know I'm hard!_ Brian freaks out, in a moment of blinding disorientation about what's really happening here. It's strong enough that he tries to twist his hips away from the touch, but for all his greyhound narrowness, Bender is a solid fucker; he just _leans_ a little harder and Brian doesn't move.

"C'mon, you want this, you _have to want this_ , I know you want this…I knew you were a grower." The last is said with a strange and gloating tone of satisfaction, Bender's eyes flicking up to Brian's. The last rays of sunset hit Bender at just the right angle to light them up, almost demonic. Bender's teeth scrape Brian's chin and his palm _finally_ grinds over Brian's dick, slow and satisfying. "C'mon, Brian, give me something to work with, here."

And here, there's that weirdness to Bender's tone, a surface toughness and the fault lines of uncertainty that underpin it. It all comes rushing in…that this is _real_. That he's here, in the iron darkness of an Illinois winter, with John Bender's hand down his pants doing everything he's wished it would do since the first time he felt it.

 _"Christ."_ Who can resist that? Who would even want to? Not Brian, that's for sure, and his hands sweep up from his side like they're spring-loaded to grab onto Bender's head and…and just _hold it_ while he bends down to take that mouth, that lush, lying, infuriating _mouth._

"Oh, thank God," Bender says to no one in particular, groping into Brian's Y-fronts to give a more personal attention to Brian's cock.

"Glove!" The rough clasp of the wool is not the friction Brian was hoping for. He jerks back, to Bender's laughter and a sharp nip of Bender's teeth in his bottom lip.

"Oh, I'll do ya one better than that," Bender says and it seems cryptic before Bender drops down to his knees and it all becomes crystal.

Brian gropes for his own Johnson, pressing hard against the base and tugging his balls down to keep from creaming in his pants like the sixteen year old he no longer is. Bender grins up at him, jerking Brian's pants down his thighs and dipping into the waistband of his shorts to shimmy them down too. "Aw, come on, Brian…you heard Vernon call me a cocksucker often enough."

Brian's eyes widen. "You. You _didn't._

Bender makes a face. "That withered old dick? Nah. I always thought he was just jealous he never got to sample my skills." Bender tears his glove off with his teeth then strokes Brian again, tight and good.

The back of Brian's head collides with the tree as he bites off his moan in his throat. He has no earthly idea if they're far enough from Andy and Claire, if there's any one else in the cemetery who might come along and see him getting blown by John Bender…but that matters a whole hell of a lot less than it did before Bender had Brian's dick in his hand.

Brian reaches out half blindly and finds the warmth of Bender's face, the coarse and shaggy ends of his still too-long hair. "Please," Brian says simply through his very tight throat. He strokes down the foxlike sharps and flats of Bender's face, marveling, begging. "Please, John. Suck me. Just…suck me."

Bender's mouth is already fitting over Brian's shaft; Bender's own moan wails up from his throat and judders through Brian's cock, thrilling vibrations that make Brian shudder and harden even more, dripping pre-come onto Bender's stroking tongue.

"Oh, _fuck._ " It's mercifully a whisper, Brian's head still rolling loosely on his neck. He can feel Bender's thumbnails—dirty, ragged, longer than all his other chewed nails combined—pressing into his hips, keeping him from bucking as Bender swallows and sucks.

It doesn't take much or long. Brian can't even choke out a proper warning when Bender licks _just so_ around the head and then dips into Brian's slit, making Brian convulse and release, terrifyingly strong pulses that fracture Brian into pieces, his knees unbuckling and his body pitching forward over Bender, almost protective.

Bender chokes once and then suddenly he's swallowing around Brian again, suckling greedily for each drop Brian has to give.

And Brian, emptied of more than his spunk, whimpering, "Fuck, John, fuck, oh, God, Jesus, John, John… _stop._ "

Bender pulls back, mouth raw and still glossy with the remnants of Brian's come, trickled down across his cheek, his chin. His grin is crazy-wild, triumphant and Brian drops to his knees as well, reaching for John's face, hauling him in, kissing and licking the come from John's skin, from inside his mouth, from his tongue.

Time…melts. Slows.

By the time Brian stops shaking, John's head on Brian's shoulder and his mouth—that fucking _mouth_ \--busily making bruises on Brian's neck, it occurs to Brian that maybe the good thing, the _buddy_ thing to do would be to return the favor. John's half-pulled into Brian's lap; Brian can feel the heat and heft of John's erection.

"Hey," Brian says, reaching. "We should, I…um."

John breathes out across his latest handiwork, which throbs like Brian's heart, like his asshole, begging in its own way for John's cock. "Later," John says, pushing Brian's hand away but not ungently.

John tosses his hair back, pushes himself off Brian's thigh. "I think first, I need that drink." He points a finger at Brian, suddenly stern. "And you're buying."

Brian's whole body feels colder without John close enough to enclose the heat between them. He tucks himself in and thinks, _Later. There's going to be a later._

"I think that's fair," Brian agrees judiciously, holding himself back from giddy by bare degrees. "Here's to Allison."

"To Allison," John agrees, producing his flask from inside his jacket and taking a swig. "Best thing that crazy bitch ever did."

Brian laughs and shakes his head. "Yeah, I bet, wherever she is, she's real proud."  


* * *


End file.
